Broken
by BringMeGiants
Summary: Maybe this was when and how THE relationship started... GSR!


**I have watched Seasons 5 and 6 till my eyes bleed, and best I can figure out, THE relationship had to start somewhere after Grave Danger and before the start of Season 6.**

**But who knows. Any hoooo, maybe this is how it went down... If you like, please leave a review! **

**(Many thanks to all those who've reviewed previous efforts - you make me all happy inside:-))**

**_Don't own anything or anyone, bla bla bla..._**

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**Broken**

He should have gone home. He should have left the hospital, gotten into his car and driven straight home. Not come here. Should never have come here. But he hadn't slept in almost 48 hours and his exhausted brain had all but shut down after they finally got Nick into the back of the ambulance.

Everything after that had been a blur.

The dog-tired team, spending hours afterwards collecting evidence, unable or unwilling to go home, not trusting that anyone but themselves could do the job thoroughly.

Getting to the lab, taking a shower, drinking copious amounts of Greg's Blue Hawaiian.

Knowing that at some point he would have to go to the hospital, check on Nick, speak to his parents, deal with the rest of the team. But not yet. Not until he could be reasonably sure that he'd be able to keep his emotions in check.

So he sat at his desk, pretending to be absorbed in paperwork, as the rest of the team finished what they were doing, and finally started to leave in dribs and drabs. Each one of them came to his office door, each one hovered there for a while, but he pretended he didn't see them, pretended that he was engrossed in the pile of paper on his desk, and after a bit, they all left the way they came.

Silently.

Wordlessly.

Catherine dallied longer than most, said his name quietly, and when she got no response, simply told him to go home and get some rest.

Sara hardly lingered at all. She came to his door and he could sense a split second of indecision as she shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other. For a moment he thought she might actually cross the threshold, and his heart jumped in his throat, but then she simply shrugged her head, turned on her heel and stalked off, biting her lip.

A part of him felt greatly relieved. If she had come in, said anything, showed any concern or empathy whatsoever, he would have lost what little control he was still managing to cling to.

But a part of him knew he should have asked her to stay.

He left the lab hours after everyone else had gone. He knew they would all drop by the hospital before going home, and he didn't want to run the risk of bumping into any of them. He needed to sleep first, needed time to allow his brain to process, catalogue and file everything that had happened, before he would have the mental fortitude to deal publicly with the fallout from the last two days.

So he waited a few hours before going to the hospital, made sure that no else was around before checking in on Nick's sleeping form and then spoke briefly to his parents. Afterwards, he sat in his car, finally allowing the fatigue to wash over him, giving in to the splitting headache that he had ignored for almost two days.

Tried to muster up the strength to drive home.

But instead he'd ended up driving here.

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The knock on her door was so hesitant, that at first she wasn't really sure that she heard anything. She'd been trying to sleep, but her brain was still in overdrive and refused to shut down long enough for her to get any real rest. She tried to tell herself it was accumulated stress from the last couple of days - concern for Nick that kept her awake.

But that didn't explain why she kept seeing _his_ face whenever she closed her eyes. Why she was unable to shake her last image of him, a forlorn figure at the desk, his head bowed, his eyes staring determinedly at the mountain of documents in front of him. He had tried to look busy, occupied, but as she watched him through the glass walls of his office, she noticed that the hand holding the pen never moved, that he never turned a page, never opened a new file.

She had wanted to go to him, sit with him, talk to him, but he wore the solitude like a suit of impenetrable armour, and like so many times before, she'd lost her nerve and simply left without uttering a word.

Some things never changed.

The knock was slightly louder the second time round, and that's when it suddenly dawned on her who was on the other side of that door. _He_ was the only one in Vegas who would drop by unannounced, or come round this time of the night.

The realization instantly jarred her wide awake.

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"Hello Sara."

His voice was barely a whisper and he kept his head down and refused to meet her eyes. He looked every inch like a man who hadn't slept for over two days. Hair dishevelled, shoulders hunched, face drawn, eyes red and bloodshot. She had expected as much even before she opened the door, but there was something else, something much more disturbing, that she couldn't yet put her finger on.

She didn't say anything, simply looked at him, and at the way he was clenching his jaw - before she slowly stepped aside and mutely gave him permission to enter. After a long moment, he finally did, moving wearily past her. She carefully closed the door behind him, and rested her forehead against the cool wood for a moment.

She wasn't at all sure that she was ready to deal with _this_.

He stopped next to her sofa, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his back to her. She noticed that he had put on a clean shirt at some point, but his pants were still streaked with dirt from where he had knelt next to Nick's Perspex coffin earlier. He wasn't moving or saying anything, and even from this distance she could see the muscles bunching in his neck and shoulders.

That's when she realised what it was about him that was different. She had seen him tired, angry, withdrawn – even defeated – before, but she had never seen him…broken.

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Broken.

That's exactly how he felt - unable to breathe, unable to move, unable speak. Vaguely aware that the seconds and minutes were ticking by, that the silence was closing in around them like a cloak, knowing that the longer he took to open his mouth, the harder it would become.

But his traumatized mind refused to cooperate, refused to form an articulate sentence, and all the while he was dimly aware of the fact that she was somewhere just behind him, watching him intently, but quiet and unmoving.

It was disconcerting.

He wasn't used to silent Sara.

It also meant that _he_ was going to have to be the one to _break_ the silence. This time, she wasn't going to make it easy on him, wasn't going to bail him out when things became uncomfortable.

Closing his eyes, he sucked in a deep breath. He shouldn't have come here. He should've gone home, gotten some sleep, allowed his brain to reboot, sorted through this madness on his own. He should turn around and leave right now, before making a complete ass of himself.

But he found the thought of leaving even more terrifying than the thought of staying.

Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea.

It seemed fate had a sense of humour after all.

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She watched him gulp down air, like a drowning man when his head finally breaks above the surface of the water. Watched as his hands came out of his pockets, and he subconsciously started to rub the fingers of his right hand along his forehead, his eyes, his temples, while his left stayed balled into a tight fist, the knuckles white.

She sensed that this was the final battle. That he would either be conquered by his fear, or surrender to his heart. And that all she could do was wait and watch, as he struggled through this last barrier.

When he finally turned to face her, her heart stopped beating. When he finally lifted his eyes to meet hers, she stopped breathing.

"Sara…"

His voice was little more than a croak, so soft she could hardly make out her name, but his eyes were boring into hers, and she could sense, rather than see, the way his body was trembling.

More than anything she wanted to close the gap between them, pull him into her arms, and tell him that everything was going to be okay, that all was forgiven, that she wasn't going anywhere, but she didn't move, didn't make a sound.

If he wanted this, then he was going to have to say it. Do it. Admit it – not just to her, but more importantly, to himself. This time, she wasn't going to let him get away with just a confused look, or a fumbling attempt at an explanation.

This time, he would have to say it.

All of it.

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Her eyes held him captive, as he searched desperately for the words that kept eluding him. He had no idea how to proceed, how to give voice to everything he was feeling, how to go about telling her all the things he had come to realise over the last few years, few months – the last two days.

Lowering his eyes, he sat down heavily on the edge of her sofa and dropped his face into his hands. She had once told him - _it is easy to wear your heart on your sleeve when you're not looking into his eyes. _

He was about to test that theory.

"I…don't…know…how to do this..."

He didn't dare look at her, didn't dare lift his head out of his hands to check whether she had heard him or not. He could only continue blindly, fighting the fog in his brain, trying to grab hold of the fragments of words in his head, before they vanished like mist in the morning sun.

He was committed now – there was no stopping, no turning back. Therefore, if it had to be done, then best it was done quickly. Taking another shuddering breath, he stopped trying to get it out fluently, and simply focused on making sure that he got it out at all.

"...I've been…an ass. An incredible ass…it's just…that for so long…I...I…thought I could fight it, you know? I thought if I ignored it, it would go away…and…and…no one would get hurt. I…I…never meant to hurt you, Sara, please believe that. I just…don't know…how…"

His voice trailed off as he felt her sit down on the sofa next to him. For a moment he hoped that she would reach out and touch him, or at least acknowledge that she had been listening. But when she didn't do or say anything, he started to panic, and lifted his head to look at her.

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She was sitting as close to him as she could get without actually touching him, fearful that any physical contact between them would let her resolve crumble. She stayed silent, willing him to continue, needing to hear him say the things he had come to say.

That's when she realised how terrified she was. Scared that this was nothing more than the stress and pain of the last few days finally catching up with him. Afraid that it was only happening because he had been forced to face his own mortality, when the kidnapper had blown himself up and almost taken Grissom with him.

That he was doing this simply out of fear, and that he would regret every word in the morning.

"Grissom…I don't think…"

"Sara…please…"

He cut her off mid sentence, looked at her for a moment and then hung his head in defeat. He was staring intently at the floor when he spoke again.

"I didn't…come here…to…this isn't some…spur of the moment…"

She saw him swallow, then sigh, as he started rubbing his forehead with one hand again. A gesture she found oddly endearing and which made her chest ache. He turned his head away from her before he started to speak again, his voice slightly muffled by the hand over his eyes.

"I need you."

His words weren't completely unexpected, but to hear him actually say it, admit it, after all these years - after everything - was still like a punch in the gut, managing to knock the breath out of her. He still had his head turned to the side, but she needed to see his face now, to look into his eyes, to gauge how much of this she dared to believe.

"Griss – look at me."

Other than giving his head a small shake, he didn't move, and she was compelled to close the slight distance between them, until she was sitting tightly pressed against his side. Reaching out, she gingerly took hold of the hand on his forehead and pulled it away from his face.

His body jerked at her touch, but he kept his head turned away and she was forced to reach out again, this time to cup his cheek, and turn his face towards her.

"Look at me."

His eyes were focussed somewhere on her chin, and it seemed to take an inordinate amount of time for him to lift them and meet her gaze. They were dark and smoky, and for the first time in months - maybe years - they were unguarded, allowing her to see the emotion swirling around in them.

The pain, the fear of rejection, the uncertainty – and dared she hope – the love, mirroring everything she was feeling.

It was oddly comforting, knowing that her doubts were the same as his, his fear the same as hers.

It was an indication that maybe just maybe, this might be worth the risk after all.

And when he traced his thumb across her lips, and dipped his head to press a soft kiss on her mouth, she knew that she was willing to take her chances.


End file.
